


The disgrace of all gods and men

by amberfox17



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, Intersex Loki, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Other, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myth Thor/Loki. In which Loki is many things, but not that kind of monster, and Thor has no idea of what lies ahead. Or, what does a trickster god while he waits for a little Thunderer to grow up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The disgrace of all gods and men

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by [mrhiddles' glorious Myth Thor](http://mrhiddles.tumblr.com/post/57774069081) and [litzebit's stunning Myth Loki](http://litzebitz.tumblr.com/post/62346753073/i-still-cant-get-over-this-perfect-myth-loki-bjd), but mostly from my deep and abiding love for Norse Mythology. This may be distinctly Marvel flavoured, but it's myth at the core. Title from a description of Loki in the Prose Edda.

Loki bar flærða tíma – Loki was fortunate in his deceit

_\- from the Norwegian Rune Poem entry for the Younger Futhark Bjarkan rune_

Lokke slår sin havre – Lokke (Loki) is reaping his oats

_\- an early 20th-century phrase in Jutland to describe heat shimmers_

 

Loki is fishing, and has been for some time. It is a long, slow day in Asgard, as all days are long and slow in this sun-soaked and complacent realm, and he trails his fingers in the water idly, unconcerned that so far, he has not actually caught so much as a stickleback. The old restlessness has come on him again, the smug voices and sneering faces of the Aesir rubbing him the wrong way, his hackles rising every time one of them so much as passes him by. He will leave soon, return to his wandering, see what havoc he can wreak in other places where consequences are both sharper and sweeter, and never seem to follow him home. He has only one thing tying to him to this frustrating place, and it is this he is thinking of as he swirls his fingers through the river, wondering how and when to break it, so he might be free once more.

“Uncle!” comes the cry from behind him. “Uncle, I must have words with you!”

Loki would know that voice anywhere, despite its broken texture, and so he does not bother to look over his shoulder to greet the youngster. He is still not quite sure _why_ Thor loves him so, for he has never made the slightest effort with Odin’s latest brat, and yet the bright-eyed little boy had always clung to him, always traipsed after him, one fist in his mouth and the other (invariably sticky) reaching out to hold on tight to Loki, in any place he could reach him.

Thor’s inexplicable adoration has not dimmed with age, and so even as he hovers on the borderline between child and adult he still seeks Loki out, partly as a refuge from the dullness of his duties and partly purely for the pleasure of his company, as far as Loki can tell. Well, Loki has had enough children of his own to know how to handle the boy, and he as he has no particular plans in motion, is happy enough to lead Odin’s son into as much mischief as they can find.

“That all depends on what the words are, Thor,” he says, playing at busily untangling his net. “We had agreed to hunt tomorrow, that you might concentrate on your studies today and I might have some peace. The whole world does not revolve around you, little Prince, no matter what you tell yourself.”

 “But this is important!” Thor says, voice cracking. It is quite sweet really; the boy is struggling with his growth into manhood, for although he already has wide shoulders and a great deal of muscle, he lags behind Loki and the others in height and gracefulness, and while the rolling depth of his voice is beginning to show through, most days he still wavers in his childish falsetto. “I – I have heard strange stories about you today,” Thor says, his bravado a poor cover for his anxiety. “Disgusting stories. One’s that cannot possibly be true.”

Ah. He had thought he had more time than this, but so be it. “And which stories are these?” Loki asks, uncoiling from his fishing so he can stand before Thor, lips pursed and hip cocked. It is a rhetorical question really, since he knows all the tales and started most of them himself, but he is interested in what Tyr – for of course it is Tyr, for he is teaching Thor swordcraft and the fool is still bitter over the loss of his hand, which is hardly Loki’s fault – in what Tyr has dared to tell the oh-so innocent youngster, and what words he would use to describe the wicked perversities Loki is so fond of.

“They name you _ergi_ ,” Thor says, flushing at the word, the red stain swallowing up the freckles across his nose and cheek. “They say you spread your legs for other men and far worse beside. They say there is nothing you would not lie with, could you find a way to a manage it.”

Loki looks at him, at this fair and fragile Aesir princeling, this beautiful golden boy who dares not even repeat the cruder words Tyr would have favoured. He has no doubt rushed straight from his training to hear the truth from his beloved Uncle and favourite playmate, and the silly thing doesn’t even know what answer he truly wants from Loki.

Thor is frightened and curious and wanting and so, so desperately _young_ that it would take less a dozen words for Loki to have him on his knees, begging for all Loki could give him. It would be so _easy_ , and a great insult to both Odin and all his kin, but though he is, in this moment, sorely tempted, Loki will not do it. Loki is many kinds of monster, and proudly so, but this one he will not be; not for sentiment or goodness or even for the debt between he and Odin, but because he has no taste for it. He wants the man he can see unfurling within the awkward boy, and he would rather wait and have him entirely than take him now and risk spoiling the bloom.

“And what frightens you more?” he says instead, choosing this path over the many others that lay before him, watching a scowl replace the wide-eyed wondering on Thor’s face. “That I would bend over for you if you had but the stones to ask me, or that you too hunger for another man’s cock between your arsecheeks?”

Loki can see the exact moment when Thor’s temper snaps and so he waits contently for the blow to come, confident that the boy has not yet learnt how to control his explosive temper. Sure enough, Thor’s fist connects sharply with his jaw, a sudden eruption of pain and shattered bone, and Loki licks at his own coppery blood inside his mouth and lets himself fall back, lets his body go limp and he falls, he falls. If Thor calls for him, he does not hear it, and he lets the river swallow him up and carry him away, all thoughts of Thor and their inevitable confrontation ebbing away in the icy water.

When the pain in his jaw becomes an annoyance, he shucks his skin in favour of scales and becomes a heavy, brooding pike, sharp-toothed and sharper-tempered. He lurks in the shadows of the river-bed, the bane of all the flashing, frantic fish, until none move that do not fear his sudden, vicious strikes. Once he is done playing the monster he wriggles into something sleeker – a salmon, fat and healthy, and follows the taste of salt all the way to the sea and out into the vastness of the ocean, and there he sinks, deeper and deeper, swapping his scales and spine for something else, letting his bones hollow out to cartilage, all the better to bear the grinding pressure of the true deep.

Down, down in the depths where no light may go, where things unknown and unnamed slither across the ocean floor, he finds his child: he wraps all eight of his long, thin arms around Jörmungandr’s enormous, muscled body and nuzzles as best he can with a sharp beak. She is pleased to see him, as always, and they spend a lifetime or two together, their thoughts mingling like the tides that do not reach them here, conversation ebbing and flowing with the currents of the deep.

After an age, he bids her a fond farewell and begins to rise, following the silvery call of the moon, rocketing upward until his light-starved eyes are almost blinded by the riot of colour that is a coral reef in moonlight. He has grown huge, down at the bottom of the ocean, and it takes a little more effort this time to cast his body aside, the water churning as he tears free from its grip and beats his wings, screaming angrily until he can take to the skies, water scattering from his oil-slick feathers. He wanders on the winds until his heartbeat settles, and once he sights land he folds his wings and dives, lets the wind rip his seaborn self away until he is pure predator again, talons outstretched, and he thuds to the ground a falcon, bone-white and beautiful, something small and shrieking dying in his grasp.

He hunts leisurely for days, scything through the sky on pointed wings, carving out a territory for himself in the cold roof of the world, scouring the tundra for the soft, warm bodies of living things. He soon attracts a handsome young fellow, smaller than he, who shyly offers voles and offers to preen his chest with gentle clicks and calls. Loki permits his courtship, alternately fond and furious, and in due time they raise a brood of ever-hungry chicks, scrawny and ugly and so very dear to Loki’s heart. The third chick dies, as the weakest always do, but Loki is a formidable hunter and his mate the hard-working sort, and so the other two survive, an almost impossibility in this harsh land. Loki stays until they fledge and then sees them through the winter, watches them become the killers he has raised them to be, and then he leaves, to feed the wanderlust in his soul.

He spends a long time as a bird of prey, for it is a shape close to him, but eventually he comes back down to earth and there he stalks on four slipper-shod feet, a ghost in the forest, all luminous eyes and sudden death. When the lynx shape bores him he tries a fox, a bear, a wolf; this last has some merit, for he soon finds a pack, over-large and fragmenting, and with a little cunning and a lot of nerve, steals away the eldest daughter and mounts her, tongue lolling out as he laughs. He builds a new pack with her and her more daring siblings, and they carve out a territory with song and bitter battles. In the spring she bears a litter of fine black cubs, but the sight of their blue eyes and folded ears stirs the sorrow in him, and by the time they are growling and roughhousing and tugging on his tail he misses Fenrir so badly he cannot stand it.

He steals away one night, once the pups are old enough that they will not be killed in the upheaval of the pack’s change, confident in the knowledge that in his absence one of the younger, brasher males will take his place. He races with the night along the winding and secret paths between the worlds until he finds the cave where his son is chained; to his delight, Angrboða is there too, singing their bound child a lullaby and feeding him the limbs of the latest fool to seek her in the gloom of the Ironwood. He spends another few lifetimes there with them, pressed between his wood-wife and the shaggy warmth of his wolf-son and while Fenrir has never been so thoughtful as Jörmungandr, he is well pleased to have to the time to talk with him in the language of wolves.

He thinks briefly of calling in to Helheim to see his daughter, but she has grown greedy of late and like as not would not let him go. He has spent eons in that cold and quiet land, and has no desire to know it further, not yet. And so, instead, he licks Fenrir on the jaw and Angrboða on the mouth, and lopes away, climbing higher and higher amidst the leaves of Yggdrasil, until he catches the gleam of the Bifrost, its bright colours a beacon calling him on. Loki slips past the Gatekeeper with barely a flick of an ear and creeps through the golden halls of the Aesir until he reaches a wide, flat field, and there, for perhaps the first time in a millennia, he pushes himself up and lets the fur and fangs and animal bleed away until he stands on two feet and can raise two pale, long-fingered hands.

The enormous man in the centre of the field turns, startled, and breaks into a broad grin. “Uncle!” Thor booms, as happy and excited as he ever was, as if they had parted with a laugh and not a punch to the face. “I have missed you these past ages! I had begun to fear I would not see you again!”

In the countless span of time that Loki has been gone, Thor has at last become a man: tall and broad and barrel-chested, his long golden hair now more russet, as is his beard, braided as befits the warrior he so clearly is. Thor is battle-scarred and has obviously been training, for he is shirtless and sweating, and destroyed practice target sand straw dummies litter the ground. But his eyes are still as blue as the sky and just as transparent, and there is a fear there, though he would never admit to it; despite his brute strength and overpowering stature, his hands still twitch as Loki approaches, picking his way through the scattered weaponry with ease.

Fear will not do; it is precisely the opposite of what Loki wants from his nephew-in-naught-but-name. “Oh, I would not leave you _forever_ , Thor,” Loki says, smiling. “But waiting is so dull. I needed to make my own entertainment.”

“Waiting, Uncle?” Thor asks, and as Loki closes with him he finds he must look up to meet his eyes and it sends a delicious shiver down his spine. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to grow up, little Prince,” Loki says, pursing his lips and cocking his hip, and all his animal selves keen in victory as Thor leans into him, seemingly unaware of how he tilts his body to soak up Loki’s warmth.

“I am called the Thunderer now,” Thor tells him, huge and proud and foolish still, “and I alone wield Mjolnir and the lightning. No man can stand against me in battle and none may match me at the feast or drinking-hall. I am a boy no longer.”

“Then why do you brag like one?” Loki asks harshly, challengingly. “Why do you try to impress me with weak words instead of daring deeds? I see no man here, only a braggart and a coward, who once struck me because he could not answer my question.”

Thor growls and the sky overhead darkens in an instant; a god of thunder indeed, Loki thinks, and one who still cannot control his temper. The moment stretches out, as heavy and laden with potential as the sparking air around them, and Loki is on the verge of _really_ insulting the oaf when Thor finally, finally grabs him, huge hands tight around his arms, and bears him to the ground with all his weight.

Loki collapses, winded and crushed, and cannot hope to resist as Thor pushes his mouth against his and forces his tongue inside, hungry and brutish, tearing at Loki’s fine clothes, the countless layers only making him angrier – and if Loki weaves a few more as Thor rips them apart, well, he’s having so much fun it seems a shame not to make a last a little longer.

But soon enough Loki is naked beneath the panting Thor and he gasps and protests helplessly, at least until the idiot actually begins to back off, good sense winning out over raw lust, and then he swiftly switches to begging and pleading, bucking up into Thor’s powerful frame and that’s it, that’s what pleases him and so Loki does it louder and more insistently, wailing his need to the blackened sky.

Thor tears open his own trousers and is, delightfully, in no mood to wait or be gentle with Loki at all, and so with the smallest of sighs Loki chooses to swap his balls for a slick, wet cunt, all the better for Thor to get on with the fucking with, and the utter surprise on Thor’s face is more than worth the effort. Thor breaches him in one swift thrust and Loki convulses around him, body rippling with pleasure at the sheer _size_ of him, and oh, yes, the cunt was definitely the right decision, for Thor has all the patience of a berserker and is fucking him madly, all brute force and unbelievable strength, and Loki claws the ground and howls at it, his legs tight around Thor’s waist.

Thor’s thrusts are merciless and careless and yet it is all that Loki wants, and he climbs ever higher with no other help than the drag of Thor’s thick cock inside him, stretching him wide and rubbing against the sweet spot deep within. He licks at Thor’s neck, tasting the salt tang of his sweat over the throbbing pulse of his jugular, and feels all his lives, all his worlds surging forward, desperate for the climax that is building too slowly inside him. He tries to push his hand between them, to grip his desperate cock where it slides unsatisfyingly against Thor’s taut stomach, but Thor snarls at him and pushes him back down into the dirt, his entire body filling Loki’s vision and sense of space.

Loki whines and pleads but Thor is cruel and will not let him take his pleasure; instead, he grabs Loki’s legs and spreads them still further, holding them wide apart so Thor can fuck harder, deeper, ignoring how Loki screams in desperation. Loki is not at all sure he will survive Thor’s fucking as the huge man pounds into him, but he cannot think of a better ending, and so he lets himself lie there, helpless and vulnerable, as Thor uses him until is shaking with the strain of it, until Thor roars and grinds in even deeper, pushing himself in once – twice – and then he is coming, a hot, wet gush that seems to fill Loki to the brim.

Loki is back to begging as Thor pulls out with a grunt, as his seed leaks from Loki’s cunt to stain his thighs. He looks at the babbling Loki, mouth twisted, and then without warning he shoves two thick fingers back in to Loki’s sopping hole and Loki arches like a bow and screams.

“I want to feel it,” Thor growls and Loki can barely draw breath before Thor wraps his other hand around Loki’s cock and jerks him brutally, too hard, too fast, too sudden and it is _perfect_ and Loki obliges by wailing Thor’s name as he finally comes, body shuddering through his orgasm, his cunt clamping down on Thor’s fingers even as his cock spurts and he covers himself in his own seed. Thor works him through the aftershocks, rough and exquisite, until Loki can only sob and plead for mercy.

Now, now Thor slides his fingers free and pulls Loki into an embrace, still lent over him and pining him to the floor, but gentle and careful and full of soft, warm kisses that he insists on gifting to Loki’s exhausted and exhilarated flesh.

“It seems you bring out the worst in me,” Thor says ruefully, the words vibrating through his chest as Loki snuggles into it. “And yet I am never happier than when I am with you.”

“That is your nature,” Loki says, yawning. “As mine is mine. Oh, we shall have such fun together now, you and I. I have so much to show you.”

“I am glad you came back to me,” Thor rumbles, sliding his hand possessively over Loki’s body. “I shan’t let you leave me again.”

He sounds affectionate, almost loving, but the words spark a shudder in Loki that for once is not born of lust. “I come and go as I please, Thor,” he warns, striving for a balance between lightness and solemnity. “I will not be bound, to or by anyone. Not even you.”

“We shall see,” Thor says, softening his words with a gentle kiss to Loki’s hair, and just like that, he falls into sleep, careless and well pleased with himself, still pining Loki to the ground.

Loki lies there, mind racing, feeling the unmistakable pull of _something_ coiling around him, and fancies he can hear the Norns cackling in the spaces between their breaths. He shudders again and deftly works his way out from the cage of Thor’s limbs, until he can slip free and stand over him.

“We shall see,” he echoes, the words heavy and tainted on his tongue, and he whirls on the spot and throws himself into his mare-shape. He launches himself towards the horizon, wind streaming through his mane and silky tail, and he races far, far away from Thor and Asgard and the bone-crushing pressure of fate that only he can seem to feel, racing for the night as if he can outrun their doom, plunging himself into the darkness where he will wait and wait until the lightning splits the sky.

 


End file.
